


Care for Me

by Scrunchles



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fluff, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, M/M, Master/Pet, Pet Play, Pet!Spy, Temporary Character Death, like the marshmellowiest kind of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:10:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4997218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunchles/pseuds/Scrunchles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soldier takes out his frustrations on Spy after a crushing loss.  </p><p>Over four chapters, their relationship develops into something less caustic and more cute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Break You Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tobifag](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tobifag), [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



I run a tight ship.  All-American, all the time.  Even though half of them are filthy  _immigrants_ , they still adhere to my codes, my rules, my regulations.

And if they don’t… well, most of them know better.

“THAT WAS NOT PART OF THE PLAN.”  I boom, grabbing our Spy’s shoulder and yanking hard to turn him around.  He avoided my gaze as he returned to the base, he looked down and away and didn’t even give me the courtesy of defiance.  I’ll accept deviations from prior planning.  All good Soldiers have to be able to think on their feet, of course!  Sun Tzu has an entire chapter or three dedicated to improvisation and taking risks for the good of the team…

“I  _know_  it was not part of the plan— _because there was no plan_.”  Spy snaps at me and attempts to brush off my grip, still not meeting my gaze, but I hold firm.  The heel of his hand comes up to jab my forearm, and I can see the surprise in his eyes when the hard sinew in my arm doesn’t budge, my wrist stays locked and my fingers continue to crumple the crap out of his precious little suit.

I snarl low in my throat, stepping closer and enjoying the unease in his gaze as he finally stares up into my unforgiving eyes.  “ _There is always a plan_ ,” I hiss, flecks of spit mixing with the sweat of his hot day in a mask and something in me gloats at the disgusted expression he tries to tuck away behind an apathetic front.  I can see through it, though.  I can see through all his little games.

I can make him beg for mercy.

He eyes the teammates slipping out around us, and I can see new sweat darkening his temples and where his mask lies against his upper lip.  I stay frozen, waiting for our last witness to leave.

“Scout!” I bark, and the kid freezes with his hand on the handle.  “Lock the door behind you…” I direct him.

Spy’s eyes flick over to see the youngster hesitate, and I slowly tear my gaze away from my adversary, but by the time I look up, the lock’s been pressed and the door is clicking shut.

“What’s wrong, froggy?”  I ask, low and dark.

When his hands come up and shove me hard in the chest, I’m caught off guard and release his jacket.  He preens, straightening it and sneering at me like he’s so much better.  Civilized, perfect Spy.

I want to rip him apart.

My fist connects with his jaw, and he reels from it before coming back at me with one of his fancy martial arts moves.  I don’t go for the frilly pansy shit.  I hit hard and fast and don’t take shit from some prancy little ninny like this French fuck.  The blows hurt, made by the edge of his hand to precise locations, but my body is hard as a brick and just as hard to recover from when I slug him in the face again.  He reels, breaking his defensive stance and lapsing into a boxing crouch, fists raised to protect his face—until I smash them into it.  His nose leaks blood as he circles with me, eyes sharp and focused despite my hard blows, and I flash him a dangerous grin. 

Maybe he’s not such a Nance after all.

When I try to swing again, he grapples with me, and I lose the upper hand for an instant before we’re tumbling to the cold tiles and I slam him back against the bench, growling about incompetence and lack of patriotism, two of the things I loathe most in the world embodied in the flesh of a skinny French zipper.

His toe is sharp in my side, fingers fighting for purchase on my head, back, neck.  He finds a grip just as I pull him up and away from the bench, prepared for another slam.  His other arm wraps around the bench and pulls, saving him from the full impact of the slam and causing me to overbalance, the sneaky little rat.

I pitch over, momentum guided by the hand latched onto the back of my neck.  My face slams into the slatted bench seat between his flailing legs and I snarl, letting go and rearing back with a broken nose, a split across the bridge leaking blood and stars blooming behind my eyes.  I hear him laughing from where he is sprawling on the other side of the bench, an obnoxious snort punctuating the derisive, nasal, un-American trumpeting coming from his lungs. 

I raise my boot to the edge of the bench just as he brings himself up to sit and shove hard.  His back slams into the lockers, edge of the bench hard against his chest and arms.  If I’d shoved any sooner, I would have gotten his face or neck, and I curse myself for missing the opportunity.  Sun Tzu would be ashamed.  He says one must  _never_  pass up an opportunity to decapitate your opponent in new, painfully creative ways.

“You fucking psychopath.”  He snarls, snorting blood and gasping for air as I press harder, determined to crack something important.

“You wanted this, Spy.  You think you can just disobey a commanding officer like it’s nothing?  I don’t think so!”

“ _Commanding officer_?!  You’re a self-appointed lunatic bent on each battle allowing you to emerge as a hero from the depths of—STOP THAT YOU SHIT EATING SON OF A BITCH!” He wheezed something after that outburst.  Probably along the lines of, “oh,  _mon dieu_ , I can’t  _breathe_ , perhaps I should apologize to the man with his immaculately shined boot trying to shove this piece of locker room furniture through my chest.”  One of his arms is pinned to his stomach, the other is scrabbling uselessly against the underside of the bench, trying to maneuver free, but between the lockers, the bench itself and the support bar, trapping it from the side, that arm isn’t going anywhere.  He couldn’t be in a more desperate position if I’d planned it—and it’s invigorating to see the pain and weakness in his eyes where only minutes ago there was defiance and a staunch bitchiness that I’ve taken right out of his system.

He looks up at me as his eyes glaze, chest heaving against the hard edge of the bench, and I feel something rush through me—power, victory, and a hunger for spoils before I strike the final blow.

I reach down and haul him up, keeping the pressure between the bench and the lockers so that it hurts the entire front of his body as he’s yanked up from his pitiful position at my feet.  Both of my hands grip his suit, one at his chest and the other at his stomach as I heave him up into the air and then slam him down against the bench.  His head cracks against it, the brief breath I’d allowed him leaves his lungs in a painful arch, and a soft, pitiful sound like a whimper leaves him.  I smirk, but it falls when he makes a show of defiance, wrapping his legs around my waist, and yanking hard to the side.  The shift in equilibrium bringing me into the lockers, but it’s not hard enough to do any actual damage.

I’m on him immediately, yanking him up by the front of his shirt and, between his legs wrapped around my hips and the fact that I’m so pissed at him, he’s not even touching the bench anymore.  He’s grinning, teeth smeared red and mask stained with his own blood.

It isn’t until he lets out a guffaw that I slam him down against the bench, bearing my weight down on top of him and grinding him into the—

He moans.

I move to pull back, but he follows me, rolling his hips up against mine, a sneer wrinkling his nose and baring his teeth still.

“What’s wrong,  _sir_?”  He spits, blood and slaver splats against my uniform.

“What’s—this is  _not_  regulation!”  I growl back, trying to pry his skinny legs from their vice-like grip around my waist.  I slam him down into the bench, thrusting my hips to swing him down with force again and again, trying to get him to release me.  Instead, he clings on like a monkey, and the hardness I feel every time our crotches grind against each other makes my stomach roil with nausea.  This is not the time or place for such vile acts, and especially not when I’m trying to teach the bastard a lesson!

“Ah, and yours  _is_?”  He asks, rising up with a roll of his hips to grab the front of my uniform and yank—

This bastard is—

This fucking—

_SPY—_

The probe of a slick, warm tongue brings me back down from the  _paralyzing outrage_  seething through my veins.  I grab him by the back of his mask, wrench him away from his  _gross molestation_  and slam him face first into the lockers. 

“Ahaha… that hurt.”  He groans as I pull him back again.  His tongue is split, and he pokes it through his lips to wag at me before my lips are on his, this time of my own volition, and I can taste him, hear his gasps, feel his feet slip down to the floor again, and his body presses harder against my own, backing me up to the lockers—

“ _NEGATORY_.”  I announce, shoving him away far enough for the most intense kiss of his life to break and then turning around to slam  _him_  against the lockers, my lips sealing over his again and abusing the split at the corner, nipping at the cut in his tongue when it probes my own, and grinding our hips ferociously together.

Need builds within me, and I  _hate_  it.  I draw back a fist and feel something crack when I send it pile driving into his side.  A double lungful of air fills my mouth and I pull away with a laugh, sneering at his twisted expression.   The punch didn’t make anything easier.  I still want him.

His eyes meet mine, and I don’t see hate or anger. 

 _Want_.

I grab his mask again and haul him forward, teeth clicking painfully, but neither of us move to pull back.  His tongue probes past my curled lips, past the bared teeth of my grimace of angry confusion to twist with my own, lure it into his mouth and—he tilts his head, delves further into my mouth, and arches up against me.

I slam him back against the lockers and my hands fumble with his belt, his pants, shove them down hard when I can’t work the button and smirk at the grunt of frustration when the pop of a button is heard.

“Oh just wait until I get at your fancy shirt.”  I growl when he pulls away to huff out an angry breath of air. 

“Is undressing me further really necessary?”  He asks, shrinking away when I grab the front of his shirt and wrench, popping buttons and seams and getting a pansy groan from Spy.

“No, it’s not.”  I tell him, carefully unbuttoning the top button of his jacket before ripping it open and snapping the other two off, onto the floor.  He head butts me, and my nose starts bleeding again, throbbing from the whack, but I grab his arms, whirl him around and shove him against the lockers.  “You’re on thin ice, maggot!  Don’t  _make me_  use that tie.”  I growl, and he chuckles but behaves until he hears my zipper. 

“Ah, so the prelude is over, then?”  He asks, pressing harder against the lockers and licking his lips as he looks over his shoulder and down at my impressive erection.

“Fighting is an important part of any man’s  _habit_ , and I haven’t enjoyed _beating the shit_  out of anyone in far too long.”  I bark, grabbing his mask again and shoving his face back forward.  “Eyes front, you traitorous blotch on my roster.  I’ll teach you to go off the rails.”

“Oh, please do…!”  Spy groaned, wiggling his hips and laughing against the cold grey metal, red streaks and prints of his face here and there on the otherwise spotless paint.  “I could use a good screw before I write a report on—“

“HOW YOU FAILED TO FOLLOW A SIMPLE ORDER?”

“On your gross misconduct with a  _fellow officer_.”

“ _FELLOW_?”  I sputter, thrusting in hard, unwilling to be hindered by his pathetic begging for mercy.

“Oh!”  Spy grits his teeth and his fingers curl into fists against the lockers.  “Shit… ah… yes,  _fellow_ … we are all the same  _rank_  here, you brute… now keep going or I’ll lose my mind…” One of his newly made fists slams into the locker and he arches to force himself back on me with a groan rolling up his throat from somewhere deep, primal,  _strange_  from  _Spy_.

I like it. 

I bring a hand up to wrench his mask up to the nape of his hair and dive in for a hard bite, wrenching something wonderful from him, a mix between pain and pleasure that provokes a hard roll of my hips up into him.  He’s tight, and it’s hard going, and I pull out to slick my hand with spit before I notice he’s fumbling with one of the lockers.

I spin him around and slam him back with a hand clenched around his throat.  “Going for a weapon?  Too much of a coward to fight hand to hand like a real man?!”  I accuse him, leaning in close, my eyes narrowed in a glare.  I was just starting to  _maybe_  think he was worth keeping on the team.

“It’s… it’s Scout’s.”  He chokes past the vice grip I have.  “You…” he drags in a dry breath and I loosen my grip on his windpipe enough that he can get a small amount of oxygen.  “You think that little spunk-farm doesn’t keep lube in every available nook and cranny?”

I stare at him hard for a moment, eyes boring into his watering gaze.  “Well _why the fuck_  didn’t you SAY SOMETHING EARLIER?!”  I bark, releasing him to investigate this supposition. 

There is, indeed, a bottle of lubricant hidden in the back.  The little termite attempted to hide it between the cans of a six-pack of Bonk! but I am too vigilant for such trivial methods to work.  When I withdraw, Spy is stretching out on the bench, a smile on his lips and his pants and shoes gone.

“No need to prepare me, but a little slickness would be better for you… blood is a terribly sticky lubricant,  _oui_?” 

I wrinkle my nose at his statement and kick off my boots before dropping trow.   I uncap the lubricant, slather my erection with it and mount the bench before pulling Spy over to me by his legs, and draping them over my shoulders, taking in the marks covering his body.  I’ve done all this to him, and the French whore still wants me inside him.

He gets what he wants soon enough, it doesn’t take long before I’m balls deep inside him, pulling noises from him that I’ve only heard on the battlefield before and it only makes me more eager to bruise his hips with my thumbs and bring him onto my cock at a faster pace.  His hands grip for me, first latching onto my neck, then my hair and then pulling hard and only releasing when I slam him down into the bench, a hard moan leaving him at the impact. 

“Fuck… Soldier…  _yes_ …” he shivers around me, his cock leaking against his stomach, untouched and still so fucking desperate  _just_  from me shoving him around a bit and kissing and fucking the daylights out of his tight, perfect ass.

“Your ass…  _isn’t fucking PERFECT. **GODDAMMIT**_ **.** ”  I snarl, thrusting harder, faster, determined to show him that he is French and stupid and  _not the best fuck I’ve had thus far in my life._

By the time my balls hitch and he’s already gone, long past coming across his own chest and stomach like some mamby pamby teenager, my name is the only thing on his mind, on his lips.  Those damned delicious, tempting lips.

I pull out and add my seed to the jets across his stomach, unwilling to come inside someone so deluded.

He rolls his eyes back and closes them, stretching like it’s a fucking luxury, like he feels amazing after being beaten to a pulp and fucked into submission.

“So, my ass is ‘perfect’?”  He asks me, pulling his cigarettes from  his ruined jacket and lighting two, passing the second to me.

“Shut your whore mouth.”  I snap, sucking down a lungful of frilly French smoke before blowing the breath out my nostrils.  “This is terrible.”  I growl before taking another drag.

“Mmm… yes, a travesty.”  He agrees, flicking ash onto the floor carelessly.

I flick the butt onto his pants before moving to collect my own.

“As much as I enjoyed this, kill me on your way out, won’t you?”  He asks, and I look up at him with a frown from unlacing and pulling my boots back on.  He rolls his eyes and finishes his cigarette in another quick drag.  “I don’t think either of us want to explain all this,” he motions to his entire body, “to Medic… you have minimal damage and I look like I just got hit by a bus and then fucked by a freight train.”  He winks at me and arches his hips.  “Very nice, by the way.  I haven’t felt this sore in years.  Kudos, really.”

I flush and stand quickly, marching to the door when he clicks his tongue.  I pause with my hand on the door before making an about-face and opening my locker to get out my shotgun.

“The head, if you please… and perhaps next time I’ll show you how skilled I am with—“

I shove the barrel into his mouth and he looks up at me, our eyes meeting for a brief moment, but long enough for him to trail his tongue over the long metal tube sensually. 

I feel a twisting in my gut, though I’ve  _just_  come, and pull the trigger before he can provoke me further.  His head disappears and I turn my back on his body, not bothering to watch it and his clothing disappear as I make my way to the door.

When I open it, Scout, Sniper and Demoman are standing outside, staring wide eyed at my blood flecked clothes and the general disarray of my appearance.

“He fought back.”  I snarl, hoping the flush of arousal might be mistaken for that of victory.  I hurry to the showers, eager to wash him from me.  The cologne and blood and the very  _idea_  of him.

 _Next time_ …

There wouldn’t  _be_  one.


	2. Use Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spy's health dips and Medic attempts to intervene. Failing that, Medic sends Soldier to make Spy see reason. Spy makes sure matters escalate.

I hate going to the infirmary.  Usually because I never come on my own volition.  Unless I’ve let some cold or other ailment that can’t be cured by respawn go too far, I’m dragged in by Medic’s brute and left all too often with massive bruises upon my arms from his monstrous hands.

Each visit, I sulk quietly.  Reluctantly divesting myself when instructed and snapping snide remarks at Medic when asked anything at all.  I am a Spy, I can take care of myself.  I don’t need anyone to do it for me.  Not in this poor excuse for a ramshackle town, anyway.  Certainly not on this team.

“Herr Spy, you really need to pay greater attention to your health.”  Medic has circled me and said this same thing every few weeks for the past two months.  It’s almost like he actually expects me to change what I’m doing. 

I’m fine.  So what if I don’t show up at every meal, or even one some days.  I have work to do, I devote ninety percent of my time to work and counter espionage.  I earn my checks, and what does the rest of the team do? 

They act like this is some sort of pathetic game borne from the tired grievances of old men.  The last half of that is true, but this is still a war, and the only reason that the enemy hasn’t yet won is because of my efforts to keep us afloat.  I have foiled countless plots undertaken by the enemy Spy to bring us down, and haven’t been thanked at any point in time for it.  I don’t expect to be either—it’s my job, and I know that I do it well.

Just as it’s Medic’s job to make sure that I obtain sufficient nutrition and sleep.

That doesn’t mean that I won’t scowl at him about it.

“I mean it.”  He tells me, when all he gets is a vehement stare and a few glances toward the door.  “You will run down again at this point… your decision making faculties will deteriorate beneath the stress it is having on your body, and if you mess up a battle again like last quarter…” he sucks in a breath, and I feel a small smirk twitch my lips.  He doesn’t know what went on in the locker room between myself and Soldier before, no one does.  They think he beat me near death and then shot me like a dog.

When he just took things into his own hands, violated me upon request… I lick my lips and force a smile, eager to leave before I can think about it too much.  I’m too weary to explain why I’ve begun to get hard merely at the mention of what has been referred to as, “that time Solly kicked the livin’ crap outta Spy for like thirty solid minutes” by some.  Specifically, Scout and, a few times, Sniper.  Though not in those exact words, of course.

“Yes, yes… I’ll do better.”  I promise Medic, moving to stand, but a heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder and I’m tempted to break the fingers one by one until it’s removed.  I stay still, though I don’t sit back down.  I refuse to be intimidated by some behemoth that follows the orders of a quack.

Medic eyes me, probably studying the circles under my eyes and the lines that weren’t there when I first started this job.  I know how bad I look, know that I’ve only deteriorated since he last dragged me in for one of these little pep talks, but he makes a motion to the Russian bear standing behind me and the hand lets me straighten and begin redressing myself.

“Stop buzzing about me, doctor, and do something about the gout that Demoman won’t stop complaining about, yes?  Wouldn’t want him to complete his pirate garb with a peg leg, now, would we?”  I sneer and retrieve my cigarette case from my pocket as I turn to leave.

“Spy, those don’t help your appetite—“

“ _Goodnight_ , Doctor.”  I grind out between clenched teeth.

When I return to my room, I right the rug and my desk chair, which I was so rudely dragged from before and sit down to my work again.  I work from a small notebook and a standard intelligence page, lined in white and green with perforated, holed edges on either side. 

My mind drifts after only a few minutes, and I become frustrated when I realize it’s going back to the names he’d called me, the bruises he’d left that I’d never gotten to toy with.  Oh, but he’d killed me afterward.  He’d so willingly blasted my head off after screwing the life out of me.

My pants are tight, and I shift upon my chair, before beginning to move my pen again, deconstructing the intelligence beneath it, using the glyphs and following the information down the page in a serpentine pattern, drawing arrows to help myself read and absorb it later.

“Frog.”

Dear God, I can hear him still.

“…  _Spy_.”

So irritated and—a hand drags me back from my desk, knocking my chair over and allowing me to fall with it.  I feel the nausea of falling as I realize Soldier was actually in the room attempting to get my attention and is now standing over me.  The rug buffers the back of my head from the floor, and I glare up at him, annoyed that he has waited so long to come back for more. 

“What?”  I ask, crossing my arms from where I am and giving him a frown.

“Stop fucking pouting and get your ass back up here.  I brought some food, and you’re going to eat it, you little maggot.”  Soldier’s words are clipped, and I have no doubt that he can see the slight bulge in my slacks. 

I smirk and stretch my arms, shifting my hips up and rolling them in the air as if to get a kink from my back.  “If I  _am_  pouting, it’s because you took so long to come back to—“ what he said after, about the food, sinks in and I wrinkle my nose.  “Oh.  Medic talked to you.”  I sigh and right myself with as much grace as I can manage, all things considered, and pick my cigarette up before it can leave too much ash on my rug.  I think it singed a small circle, but I can’t be sure until I inspect it closer—

“Why aren’t you eating yet?”

“Why are you running errands for a Nazi?”  I ask, making a face at him and stubbing the cigarette out as I eye the hastily made sandwich and accompanying bottle of beer.  “Eugh, you think I’m going to eat that?”  I turn my nose up and bend to pull my chair back up. “I have work to do.  If you’re not here to waste my time pleasantly, then don’t waste it at all.”  I tell him, shifting some papers out of the way of the condensation ring forming under the cold bottle.

Soldier glares at me from beneath his helmet, tilting his head back slightly so that he can see me.  “You will do as I tell you,  _frog_.”

I let a humorless laugh leave my throat and take a few quick steps to invade his space, cupping his cheek with my hand and dragging it along his scruffy jaw.  “Hmm… and who was the one so eagerly fucking this frog all over the locker rooms?”  I ask, allowing him to shove my hand away only to bring it back and trace the smooth skin of the bridge of his nose with my thumb, where I’d left a cut that wouldn’t last.  He shoves it away again and then shoves me, both hands on my shoulders.

It’s too easy.  I see the look of surprise on his face, and then the anger—no, not anger, concern.

I feel something come over me, and I adjust my shirt, cross my arms, try to hide my thin frame. 

Soldier’s nostrils flare, and he barrels forward, ripping my arms away and my shirt open.  His hand moves to paw at my ribs, the dip of my stomach, tugs at the leeway of pant gathered at my hips by the belt keeping them up.  His other hand comes up to drag me closer, tilting me back by my mask and glaring straight into my eyes.  There’s nothing romantic about it, nothing that should bring the flush to my face, but I find myself hot beneath the cloth of my mask, and I try to look away.

Oh.  I’m  _ashamed_.

“You…” he sputters and wrenches my head around to force me into looking at him again.  I close my eyes and swallow.

“I’ve been busy.”  I tell him, trying to twist away, but his hand is firm and has a bit of my hair beneath my mask, so I don’t get far.  His hand on my hip grips and tightens.

“And you think  _not eating_  is the best way to conserve time?”  He hisses, and it brings another flush to my face. 

I clench my jaw and bring my hands up to push at his shoulders.  “Let go of me, you don’t own me, this is not your place—“

“I WILL DO WHAT I LIKE AND ORDER WHO I LIKE.”  He cuts me off in a curt, booming snarl.  “NOW YOU ARE GOING TO SIT DOWN AND EAT THIS FUCKING SANDWICH.”  He glances over my shoulder and his boot moves to hook my chair closer, turn it toward me so that when he shoves me back, I stumble into it and end up sitting. 

I force a smirk and try to gain back some control, no matter how much I’d love to just hand it over to him.  The way he pushes me around… he’s clearly longing for someone to—no, this is Soldier, he’s too straight laced for anything that might be valuable to me. 

“Are you going to make me eat, now?”  I ask, resting my hands on the chair arms rather than crossing them.  I’m not going to get defensive about this.

He turns to take the plate and then a step toward me.

That’s all it takes for me to hold up my hands and scoot myself back a bit in the chair.

“Actually…”

“Are you going to eat it yourself?”  He asks, like that’s the only way he will leave the room without shoving it down my throat.

I study him, nod to the desk and wait for him to set the sandwich down before sliding forward to the edge of my chair and reaching for his shirt.  He allows me to pull him forward a few paces, knows I’m no threat to him in this state.

“I’ll eat it.”  I promise, wrinkling my nose in distaste and letting my knee brush his thigh, watching for a sign of weakness, a tremble, an intake of breath… when there’s nothing, I press forward anyway.  A good soldier doesn’t put his emotions out for his enemies—or his “subordinates.”  “But first I want you to make me suck your cock.”

I see the flinch, the step back and the incredulous look.  .

“You want me to WHAT?”  He asks, taking another step away as I let his shirt slip from my fingers.

“I want you to force me to give you head.”  I tell him, standing and following him step for step.  “I know you can, that you’ve got no moral veil keeping you from it.”  When his back touches the wall, I step right up close and lean in to smell the musk of him.  He hasn’t shaved like a good Soldier, he’s been off since our first real encounter.  Tiny things like unkempt appearance and not working out in every ounce of down time he has have tipped me off that he’s not entirely kosher with having screwed me and having made me bleed all over that locker room.  He enjoyed it, but that wasn’t how he’d wanted that encounter to go.

“Soldier…” The surety slips from me as I realize just how much I need this.  I need to be used.  I need to be wrenched about like before.  And  _this_ , this offering of food… the order to sustain myself.  I need someone willing to use me and force me to care for myself at the same time.

Whether that’s Soldier or someone else, all I need right now is this, his strong hands gripping my shoulders and shoving me down.  I fight against it, but he bears down and grips so hard that my collarbones creak under the pressure.  My pulse quickens and I struggle to stand, but he brings his foot forward to hook my knee, make me buckle before him and he holds me down hard with a hand on my head, the other leaving my shoulder to move to his belt.  The clink of it makes me shiver, makes my gut twist as I look up at him, sneering through my lust.

“ _Jesus_ , you really want this…” he sounds half surprised and half curious, like he wants to know my motives.

I merely continue to fight his hand, twisting my head when he shoves his pants down and presents his steadily stiffening erection.

“Little…” he wrestles with me, trying to wrench me around with his single hand in my mask and hair before taking my face in both and turning me around to face him again.   When I keep my mouth clenched, he huffs and grinds against my lips and cheek with soft groans.  Oh, the things I could do for him if he would just—

His thumb wiggles between my lips and into the gap at the back of my molars.  It works its way between my teeth and his hand wrenches back on my hair to aid in opening my mouth for him.  I taste gunpowder and the salt of unwashed skin as his thumb rubs along my tongue.  A moan leaves my throat, and I clench my eyes when he chuckles and slips his cock between my lips.  I try to rear back, but he grips the back of my head with one hand and continues to keep my lips apart with the other.

He is timid at first, perhaps expecting me to bite down or otherwise impede him from fucking my mouth, as I’ve been resisting, but I do nothing.  I let him keep my mouth open, though still fighting his prying fingers a bit.  Once he begins to move with jerky, restrained thrusts rolled into my mouth, I fall out of the act and begin to tend him with my tongue, eager to taste him, something I didn’t get the pleasure of during our last romp.

It isn’t until he starts giving deeper thrusts, lets one of his hands slip away and ultimately forgets that I’m supposed to be fighting him that I start again.  I pull away obtusely and twist my head from side to side until he grips me with both hands again and digs his fingers into the back of my head.  He doesn’t slow to that hesitant speed again, but rather speeds up, fucks my mouth harder and snarls eager moans.

I pant through my nose, unable to really add in any technique when all I can do now is just really hang on for the ride and hope I can focus long enough to get my pants open before I rip something.  My God, I’m just so hard.  When I wrap my hand around my cock, I begin to groan around him, mewling softly against the tip of his cock when it forces itself down my throat.  Tears leak from my eyes at the intensity, the brutal ferocity of Soldier’s lack of restraint, and my hand moves faster along my own length when I realize that I might not get enough oxygen to stay conscious.  Being fucked unconscious… oh, and if he just kept going that would be the cherry on top.  I jerk my head back and gasp around him during a withdraw for another thrust and twist my hand around my cock, toying with the head and smearing my precome around as he drives into my throat hard.  My nose buries in his pubic hair, and I breathe in deep through my nose, reveling in the smell of standard issue soap and just a hint of a long day’s battle still lingering after his shower.

I don’t realize that he’s coming until he’s pulling back and I’m choking on it.  I swallow hard and come up panting and sputtering, come dripping from his cock still to dribble on my chin, the rug and my pants.  It oozes from the corner of my lips and I raise a shaky hand to smear it across my cheek.  My cock only needs a few more tugs before I come on his boots, and it’s a small, juvenile victory.

I’m exhausted, short of breath, still heaving for air and trying to swallow and lap as much of his come up as I can.  I clean him off before wiping all I can from my face, sucking it off my fingers and tenderly stretching my over-heated body out on the rug.  I can’t even be bothered to tuck myself in.

Soldier studies me for a second, stretched out like a smug cat now that I’m sated.  God, I’m hungry, though.

He kneels, and just when I think he’s about to tuck my cock in, he begins stripping me, pulling my pants and underwear down and off as well as my shirt before moving me effortlessly to the bed.  He fetches a night gown from my closet and makes me sit up so that he can dress me.  The beer has gone luke warm, but he pops it open anyway and brings the bottle and sandwich to my bedside as I fight to keep my eyes from closing just yet.

The sandwich looks a little more appetizing now that I’m hungry, and he cuts it into triangles with one of my many knives littered around the room.  I fully expect him to leave—hell, I expected him to leave as soon as he’d come.  Tug his pants back up and stumble out like he’d just been exposed to something dreadful.  He would come back for more, of course, but dreadful, nonetheless.

He doesn’t leave when he finishes cutting the food for me, but takes up a triangle and holds it to my lips with something that’s not quite a frown.  I open my mouth and allow him to feed me, bite after bite until there’s nothing left on the plate.  I still turn up my nose at the beer, but he seems satisfied that I’ve eaten and drinks it himself as he studies me, stretched out and hardly lucid, fully spent and satisfied.

“Are you going to make this a habit?”  He asks finally, when I think I might get away with drifting off just a little.

“Which this?”  I purr, reaching out to rest my hand on his knee.  “The allowing you to hand feed me?  Or the rough, wonderful sex?  I’m partial to both, but if you have a preference, I’m sure we could work something—“

“I mean fucking not taking care of yourself to the point of insanity and then letting me fuck and feed you.”  He snorts, brushing my hand away and bopping me lightly on the head with the butt of his bottle.

“Hm…” I think about it seriously.  I don’t take care of myself well—I never have. I get absorbed in my work and forget to eat.  As well, nicotine is an appetite suppressant, and it’s general knowledge that I inhale as much as possible through the day.  A shrug is all I can answer with.

“Well, then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night.”  He tells me, sighing and moving to stand.

“Tomorrow…?”  I ask softly, opening my eyes and sitting up as he leaves.

“Well, yeah.”  He frowns and begins ticking off his reasons on his thickly knuckled fingers.  “You won’t let the doc tell you what to do, gotta be fucked into submission before you’ll listen to a commanding officer, won’t eat on your own beforehand, won’t eat on your own afterward.”  He sticks out his thumb last and studies it before shrugging and running the hand through his buzz cut.  “Listen, that afternoon in the locker room was just me letting off steam.  It was good, but I don’t think that’s what you need.  Your performance improved, and you started coming around meals more… Medic thinks I’ve got some sort of control over you…“

“Mmm… you do,  _mon petit monstre_ …” I smile and shift on my bed to look at him better, leaning against my door and toying with that bottle like it’s the only interesting thing in the room.  I realize that I’ve admitted something that I’m not quite ready to get into with Soldier and clear my throat.  “You may bring me dinner tomorrow night.”  I tell him, gathering my wits again and smirking at him.  “Water to drink and anything that is  _not_  a sandwich will do.”

He studies me for a moment, looks like he might be grinding his teeth in thought, and then he nods and smirks.  “Sir, yes, sir.”  He chuckles and pushes off of the door.

“Goodnight.”  I bid him as he moves to leave.

“Night, frog.”

As soon as the door closes, so do my eyes, and I sleep far better than I have in almost seven weeks.


	3. Control You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soldier has spent a week making sure that Spy eats at least once a day. Through a combination of awkwardness and a need for control over his environment, Soldier begins to give Spy something else he needs.

Control.  

I watch Spy eat the food I had brought him and study him closely.  He eats like he’s at a fancy dinner, though he’s sitting cross legged on his bed while I lounge in his desk chair.  His back is straight, and his bowl of goulash is perfectly balanced in his other hand.

He pauses and lets the half-empty bowl drop to his lap.

I take the glass of water from his desk and stand, cross the rug to hold it to his lips. 

He smiles at the gesture, and his spoon clicks against his bowl as he frees his hand up to touch my wrist, bare fingertips cool against my skin.

“ _Merci_ ,” he says, once he’s done with the water.  He squeezes my arm before he drops his hand back down to resume eating.

I grunt and return to the desk, waiting for him to finish every bite.  He’s tried stopping twice, but the first time I only had to growl, “all of it,” to get him eating again.  The second time, I grunted, “I mean it.”

Spy had smiled and I swore to myself the next time he stopped, I would punch him or something. 

Instead, I offered him water.

He’s honestly just too pathetic to abuse, I tell myself.

Spy leans forward to set the empty bowl on the rug, and withdraws to set his hands in his lap, eyes focused on me.  Normally, I would already have stood, taken the dishes and left.  It’s the cycle that we’ve set up since he asked me to fuck his face a week ago.

“Come here,” I tell him, unsure if I can really expect him to do what I ask.

“Oh?” Spy smirks and stays where he is.  There’s a playful tilt to his head.  "Why?“

The back of my neck heats, and I give him an unamused look.  "I said, ‘come here,’ ” I repeat, putting more force in my voice.  I can see him shiver at the order, and he slinks from the bed slowly before walking over to stand before me, knees less than an inch from my own.

“Sit,” I demand.

Spy kneels and spreads my knees, his hand going for my belt before I realize this isn’t what I had intended. 

“No!” I bark, grabbing his hands and uselessly holding them for a moment.  

Spy raises his brows at me, kneeling between my knees and apparently ready to do whatever I ask of him, as well as several things I haven’t.

“Just sit,” I finally say.

He continues to kneel, his hands in my own, and waits for me to figure out what happens next.

“Are you unsure how to proceed?” He finally asks after a lot longer than I had intended to make him wait.

I nod stiffly, and he smiles.  It’s not the catty, snarky smile that he usually has when he’s looking down on someone, but a genuinely happy one tinged with sympathy.

Spy pulls my hands to him, one on his shoulder and the other on his head.  He sets them there, watching me expectantly.  "Pet me,“ he finally tells me.

I begin to rub his shoulder, at first only in circles, then I dig my fingers into his shoulder muscles to massage lightly.

"Perfect,” he assures me.

I shift my hand on his head to rub from the crown of his head down to cup his ear and he leans into it, an eager sigh leaving his throat.

I bring my hands down to the buttons of his jacket, and he doesn’t stop me from undoing them.  

“So you can undo a garment without ripping it,” Spy purrs.

“Shut up,” I reply, wrenching it just to prove I’m not as predictable as he thinks.

Spy smirks.

I feel the urge to push him, but instead I pull back, crossing my arms.  “Take it off.”

Spy does as he’s told, and I feel control slip back to me.  I will not seem uncertain again.

“Your shoes, too,” I tell him before waiting for him to comply. My voice is firm, unwavering, and he does as he’s told.

Control.

Once Spy has settled on his knees before me again, I lick my lips and lean forward.  My elbows rest on my knees and my face is an inch from his own.

“You said I have control over you,” I tell him.

Spy sucks in a slow breath and shifts from one knee to the other.

“Stay still,” I growl.  He complies immediately.  Once he’s settled, I start again, “you said I have control over you…”  Silence hangs heavy between us, his eyes are on mine, he is still and quiet, waiting for me to finish.

”Is that what you want?” I finally ask.

Spy nods.

“Say it.”

“Yes, I want you to control me,” he says.

“If I do, you’ll eat when I bring you food,” he nods, “you’ll follow my commands on the field,” he continues nodding, looking ready to do anything I ask.  I could probably ask him to do anything right now and he would.  He’s tested the waters a few times with his dissent, but that’s it.

I can tell he’s mine.

“Take off your shirt,” I finally order him.

Spy does as he’s told, slowly slipping every single button through its hole.  He sheds the shirt and folds it on top of his jacket.  When I stare at him expectantly, he removes his undershirt as well.

He’s put on weight in the week that I’ve been taking care of him. His ribs are still noticeable, and his lean stomach muscles still curve toward his backbone more than they should, but there’s more substance there than before.

“Remove your pants.”

Spy slips his belt free and begins to take off his trousers. There’s no heat to it, he’s not trying to be sexy or flirt with me.  He’s following orders.

I lick my lips and lean back in the chair as he folds the pants and settles on his knees again.

“The mask,” I finally say, after too much silence has passed. I clear my throat and sit forward again, though allowing him his own space.  “Take off your mask,” I rephrase.

Spy sucks in a slow breath, and his hands clench into fists against his bare thighs.  He does it, though.  As he breathes out, Spy raises his hands to his mask and then it’s up over his chin and joining his pile of clothes.  There’s stubble beneath it—he probably hasn’t shaved for two days.

“Bring me a bowl of water, Barbasol, and a straight razor,” I instruct him.

Spy stands slowly, as if he expects me to tell him to stay down. I don’t, and he eventually straightens his back and walks over to the small bathroom each room is equipped with. He returns with his hands full, and the can of shaving crème shoved under his armpit.

I motion to the desk and watch as he sets the items down carefully, spilling no water, taking care that the sharp razor doesn’t scratch the lacquered surface and that the can of shaving crème doesn’t make noise as it joins the other items on the desk.  

“Sit.”  I slap my thigh with the command, and Spy straightens in surprise with a sharp intake of breath before he’s crawling onto my lap, straddling my thighs and smiling as he wraps his arms around my neck and stares at me like I’m the only thing in the room.  “Don’t look at me like that,” I snap.

Spy sighs and drops his eyes, withdrawing his hands to rest between us and only using his legs to balance on my thighs.

“Don’t… don’t fucking look like that either,” I say, feeling control slip from me.

A smirk slips across Spy’s lips and I feel anger swell inside my chest.  I slap his ass hard, and the smirk turns into a surprised yelp.  I chuckle and give his ass a squeeze before nodding at the items on the table.  “Hand me the bowl of water.”

I wet his jaw and have him hand me things as I need them.  Take the bowl, set it down, hand me the crème, hold still, take the crème, set it down, hand me the razor, hold still.  I slowly regain control.

“Good boy,” I murmur as I draw the sharp razor down in a slow, even swipe down his cheek.  His hand on my chest clutches the material of my shirt.  I wipe the razor on my t-shirt sleeve and wick away more stubble and crème from Spy’s jaw.  “Very good,” I hum, smiling when his fingers tighten in my shirt.  “Oh, you like that, hm?”  I ask, carefully directing his head up with my thumb so that I can scrape his neck clean as well.

Spy waits until I’m wiping the razor again to nod.

“Well, if you’re a good boy, I’ll take good care of you,” I promise, carefully shaving Spy’s upper lip clean and then attending to his chin.  “But if you aren’t, I’ll lose interest, and never come back.”

Spy’s throat spasms in a surprised noise just as I’m about to touch the razor to his neck again.

“Stay.  Still.” I chide him with a frown.

Spy sucks in a breath and clutches my shirt.

By the time Spy is shaved, he’s shaking from holding his balance. I stroke my hand over his jaw one last time to make sure his face is as smooth and hairless as Scout’s before releasing him with a pat on the head and one last, “good boy.”

Spy stands from my lap and stretches.  

“Go take a shower,” I tell him, when he looks at his bed longingly. His legs are shaking with exhaustion, probably from the long day at war, and the exacting nature of my commanding presence.

Spy disappears into the bathroom again, and I follow with the bowl, crème and razor.  I set them on the tiny counter and find Spy a towel when he doesn’t seem to already have one out and ready.  

His room isn’t a mess, but it’s something to do while I figure out what the hell is happening.  I put his suit and mask in the hamper set into the wall, his shoes in the closet, pick his underwear and socks up from the bathroom floor and toss them in the hamper too.  Just as I’m wondering if his sheets need to be changed, Spy emerges with the towel wrapped around his waist and his hair in an unkempt, damp disarray.

“Ready to get some quality sleep?”  I ask, pulling back the covers for him.

Spy clears his throat and smiles at me.  “Yes.  I feel pleasantly tired for once,” he says, but instead of approaching the bed, he walks up to me and takes my face in his hands.  “Thank you for taking care of me, I feel like this arrangement will work well,” he says before pressing his lips to my own.  It’s soft and warm instead of hard and violent, and I stay still in my confusion until he pulls back and smiles at me again before climbing into his bed.

I take a beat to recover, then spring back to life.  My heart is racing as I cover him and tuck the comforter around his thin body.

“Good night,  _mon maître_ …”

I don’t know what that means, but it feels good rolling off his tongue.  I head for the door quickly, but stop myself before I turn off the light.  My feet carry me back to Spy’s bed, and I scoop his head up in my hand and lean down to press our lips together again, too harshly at first, but I eventually find that warm, softness again.

“Goodnight, Spy.”  I lick my lips and taste him.  It sends a jolt through me.  “Tomorrow, I’m going to cut your hair, you hippie.”  I rub his head affectionately and reluctantly straighten as he smiles up at me.

“I look forward to it,” he says, slipping an arm out from the covers to take my hand in his own.

“G-Good boy,” I choke out before hurrying to the door and slamming it behind me.  I never expected this, never expected to want anything from Spy except for him to shut up and follow orders.

Now I want to see him smile, I want him to be healthy and happy. I want to kiss him again, and soon.


	4. Care For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spy and Soldier have fallen into a pattern of care and companionship. Spy as the pet, and Soldier as master.

Being with Soldier is nothing like the other scenes I’ve partaken in before.  I’m not sure if I really expected nor wanted it to be, going in.  Now, though, I wouldn’t change our routine for the world.

I make him fight me to get the collar on.  He tries to surprise me some days, hiding behind the door.  It worked once—the first time, but after that, I know to be wary.

It’s thrilling to be overpowered, to be reminded why I submit to him in the first place.  We wrestle upon the floor, against the walls, across the bed and under the desk, kicking and squirming, huffing and trading the occasional playful insult, a nip or two, a buck of the hips, but never a blow.

We roll and shove and kick until I’m exhausted and panting, too tired to move, let alone resist the leather collar that slips around my neck and the rough hand that caresses me softly before beginning to undress me.  I am limp as he pushes the jacket off, works the shirt buttons and then the pants fastenings.  He discards them carelessly, and I do not mind because they don’t matter to me anymore.  They are not my clothes—when the collar is on, nothing else in the world will ever matter but him.

The mask is always last, whether it is just easier for Soldier to remove it at the end or he treats removing the last barrier with some sort of reverence.  I do like to think it’s the later.  A slave to theatrics, it makes me smile and preen when he finally runs his hands through my sweat dampened hair and pulls me in for a hard kiss. 

I remain lying on the floor as he fetches his shaving basin and wets a cloth.  My skin shivers at the cool  water as he washes me, cleans the dust and musky sweat from the nooks and crannies of my body, wipes the new perspiration from the dip of my chest and the arch of my back that had accumulated during our bout. 

I whine softly when he finishes and he smiles, raking his short nails down my back, from shoulder to the slight swell of my ass.  He always takes his time, always makes sure I’m spotless and perfect for him. 

We don’t always fuck.  Sometimes he just gives me instructions.  Sit, down, bring me your toy, fetch, bring me the green ball, and I’ll have to search for it a bit before finding where he’d hid it earlier in the day.  If I come before dinner, desperate to see him after a weary day, he will order me to sit or lie down, and then give me the instruction to stay.  Depending on how playful I am, I might move to a different spot, or change my position looking for a gentle punishment.  Tonight, though, I merely allow my eyes to droop as I await my master’s return.

He grins when he sees me, ruffles my hair and strokes behind my ear, praising me for my obedience.  I stay sitting, fists curled between my ankles and ass on the ground as I wait for him to release me from the command. 

Soldier arranges his own plate and glass at his desk, the second plate for me on the corner.  He sets it down on the floor and taps the floor before it twice. 

I blink slowly and look up at him, studying his face as he raises a brow.  Instead of moving to eat, I turn to the bed and hop up to curl up at the end, arms wrapped around my knees.  I’m too tired to eat.  Our scuffle to collar me was short today because of it, and I already feel as if he might be disappointed from that. 

Soldier removes the napkin from his lap and tosses it on the desk.  I close my eyes quickly, not in the mood for a punishment but knowing I deserve one for not obeying.  I should have moved and eaten a few bites at least to show my compliance before—

I feel the bed weigh down next to me, and suddenly my arms are firmly yet gently unwrapped from my legs and my face is drawn to his lap with gentle hands.  He pets me, stroking my hair and cheeks and I nuzzle into the palm of his stationary hand, licking the salty combination of food and Soldier’s natural taste pleadingly.

“Early night, pooch?”  Soldier asks, smiling when I roll to look up at him, and I smile a little back.  “Eat a little first.  I won’t have you dropping weight again.”  His order is softened by his care, and I roll away from his lap to sprawl on my back, arms behind my head.  I obviously do not intend to leave the bed. 

A barking laugh leaves his throat and he cuffs me lightly behind the ear, using the movement to pull me up and into a quick kiss.  It’s broken far too soon, and I whine, reaching for him as he leaves the bed and fetches my plate from the floor. 

“How long has it been since I last had to feed you?”  He asks me, and the memory brings a fond smile to my own lips.

He rips off bits of bread, shapes them to hold the mixture of ground beef and vegetables on the plate and feeds me them, allowing me to lick the remnants from his fingertips before making me another bite.  I slowly regain my energy and appetite, and reluctantly roll to my hands and knees.  Otherwise this will take all night.  He lets the plate remain in his lap as I eat, using my tongue and lips to clean up the concoction made from whatever still looked edible in the fridge.  The bread is another matter.  I drag it off the plate, onto the bed and trap it between my palms to tear it into edible chunks.

Soldier chuckles, watching me get crumbs all over his bed.  His hand soothes up and down my back as a reward for beginning to eat on my own.  I arch into the affection and let a pleased sound escape my throat.

“What a good boy I have…” he coos, shifting to lie beside me when I stretch out, full and happy on the bed.  His hand travels along my skin still, a rhythmic petting that makes my eyes droop again. 

He shifts the plate to the floor, and I expect him to leave and resume eating his own dinner, but he stays, petting and praising me until I find sleep.


End file.
